We were silent a moment before I spoke again.
“And make no mistake. I want the story, that’s true. But it’s about more than just the story. It’s about me and Sean.”
She nodded and I let the silence hang between us. I didn’t know how to explain to her my motives. My skill in life was putting words together in a coherent and interesting narrative but inside I had no words for this. Not yet. I knew she needed to hear more from me and I tried to give her what she needed, an explanation I didn’t quite understand myself.
“I remember when we graduated from high school we both pretty much knew what we wanted to do. I was going to write books and be famous or rich or both. Sean was going to be chief of detectives at DPD and solve all of the mysteries of the city. . . Neither of us quite made it. Sean was closest, though.”
She tried a smile at my memory but it didn’t quite go with the rest of her face and so she put it aside.
“Anyway,” I continued, “at the end of that summer I was leaving for Paris to go write the great American novel. And he was waiting to go into the service. We made this deal when we said good-bye. It was pretty corny. The deal was that when I got rich I would buy him a Porsche with ski racks. Like Redford had in Downhill Racer. That’s it. That’s all he wanted. He’d get to choose the model. But I’d have to pay. I told him it was a bad deal for me because he had nothing to trade. But then he said he did. He said that if anything ever happened to me—you know, like I got killed or hurt or robbed or anything—he’d find out who did it. He’d make sure nobody got away with it. And, you know, even back then I believed it. I believed he could do it. And something about it was a comfort.”
The story didn’t seem to make much sense the way I had told it. I wasn’t sure what the point was.
“But that was his promise, not yours,” Riley said.
“Yes, I know.” I was quiet for a few moments while she watched me. “It’s just that. . . I don’t know, I just can’t sit back and watch and wait. I’ve got to be out there. I’ve got to . . .”
There were no words to explain it.
“Do something?”
“I guess. I don’t know. I can’t really talk about it, Riley. I just have to do it. I’m going to Chicago.”
10
Gladden and five other men were ushered into a glass-enclosed seating area in the corner of the huge courtroom. There was a footwide slot that ran the length of the glass enclosure at face height through which the arraignment proceedings in the courtroom could be heard and the defendants could answer questions from their attorneys or the judge.
Gladden was disheveled from a night of no sleep. He had been in a single cell but the noise of the jail kept him awake and reminded him too much of Raiford. He looked around the courtroom and didn’t see anyone he recognized. This included the cops, Delpy and Sweetzer. He also didn’t see any television or still cameras. He took this as a sign that his true identity had not yet been discovered. He was encouraged by this. A man with curly red hair and thick glasses made his way around the attorneys’ tables to the glass booth. He was short and had to raise his chin as if standing in tall water for his mouth to reach the slot in the glass.
“Mr. Brisbane?” he asked, looking expectantly at the men who had just been ushered in.
Gladden walked over and looked down through the opening.
“Krasner?”
“Yes, how are you?”
He reached his hand up through the slot. Gladden shook it reluctantly. He didn’t like being touched by anyone, unless it was a child. He didn’t answer Krasner’s question. It was the wrong thing to ask someone who had spent the night in county jail.
“You talk to the prosecutor yet?” he asked instead.
“Yes, I did. We had quite a conversation. Your bad luck is continuing in that the deputy DA assigned the case is a woman who I have had some dealings with before. She is a ballbuster and the arresting officers have informed her of the, uh, situation as they saw it at the pier.”
“So she’s going to go balls to the wall against me.”
“Right. However, this judge is okay. We’re all right there. He’s the only one in the building, I think, who wasn’t a prosecutor before being elected.”
“Well, hurray for me. Did you get the money?”
“Yes, that happened just as you said. So we’re set. One question, do you want to enter a plea today or continue it?”
“What does it matter?”
“Not a great deal. In arguing for bail it might just move the judge an inch or so our way if, you know, psychologically he knows you’ve already denied the charges and are readying for a fight.”
“Okay, not guilty. Just get me out of here.”
Santa Monica municipal judge Harold Nyberg called the name Harold Brisbane and Gladden went back to the slot. Krasner came back around the tables and stood by the slot so he could confer, if needed, with his client. Krasner announced himself as did deputy district attorney Tamara Feinstock. After Krasner waived a lengthy reading of the charges, he told the judge that his client pleaded not guilty. Judge Nyberg hesitated a moment. It was apparent that entering a plea so early in a case was unusual.
“Are you sure that Mr. Brisbane wishes to enter a plea today?”
“Yes, Your Honor. He wants to move quickly because he is absolutely one hundred percent not guilty of these allegations.”
“I see. . .” The judge hesitated while he read something in front of him. So far, he had not even looked over in Gladden’s direction. “Well, then I take it you do not wish to waive your ten days.”
“A moment, Your Honor,” Krasner said, then he turned to Gladden and whispered. “You have a right to a preliminary hearing on the charges within ten court days. You can waive and he’ll schedule a hearing to then set the prelim. If you don’t waive, he’ll set the prelim now. Ten days from now. If you don’t waive, it’s another sign that you’re going to fight, that you aren’t looking for a handout from the DA. It might help on the bail.”
“Don’t waive.”
Krasner turned back to the judge.
“Thank you, Your Honor. We don’t waive. My client does not believe these charges will survive a preliminary hearing and, therefore, urges the court to schedule it as soon as possible so he can put this—”
“Mr. Krasner, Ms. Feinstock may not object to your added comments, but I do. This is an arraignment court. You’re not arguing your case here.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
The judge turned and studied a calendar hanging on the far wall, above one of the clerk’s desks. He chose the date ten court days away and ordered a preliminary hearing in Division 110. Krasner opened an appointment book and wrote it down. Gladden saw the prosecutor doing the same. She was young but unattractive. So far, she had said nothing during the three-minute hearing.
“Okay,” the judge said. “Anything on bail?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Feinstock said, standing for the first time. “The people urge the court to depart from the bail schedule and set an amount of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Judge Nyberg looked up from his papers at Feinstock and then over at Gladden for the first time. It was as if he was trying to determine upon physical inspection of the defendant why he was worth such a high bail for what seemed like so lowly a set of charges.